


Will Blow Away With This New Sun

by Memories_of_the_Shadows



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Awkward Tension, Best Friends, Complete, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Pegging, Penis In Vagina Sex, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26221006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memories_of_the_Shadows/pseuds/Memories_of_the_Shadows
Summary: The war for Ferelden's future is over, and now Loghain has to figure out how to live in peace.
Relationships: Loghain Mac Tir & Rowan Guerrin, Loghain Mac Tir/Maeve Mac Tir, Maric Theirin & Loghain Mac Tir
Kudos: 7





	Will Blow Away With This New Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "I Will Wait" by Mumford & Sons.
> 
> Please note that this could be considered canon compliant, but as I wanted nice things to happen and had many feelings about the canonical events in "The Stolen Throne" which were not conducive to such feelings so _I_ consider it an alternate canon or canon adjacent. This doesn't actually affect anything about this fic, in my opinion, but I wanted to be up front about it.
> 
> I do not consent to my work being hosted on any unofficial apps, especially any with ad revenue and subscription services, or any website other than ao3 unless I personally cross-posted a work.

Loghain wonders why Maric is so intent on punishing him.

Oh, he probably doesn’t think that giving Loghain a Teyrnir is a punishment, he was very clear that it was meant as a gift and a reward when he ambushed him with that ridiculous ceremony, and yet…. Loghain feels very punished indeed.

It is not Gwaren’s distance from Denerim that truly bothers him. Despite his feelings for both Rowan and Maric--the same and yet different for them both, and he knows that if he were welcome in their bed he would not be able to resist, but he also knows that the time where that could have happened is long past and will never recur--he has made his peace with their relationships with each other and with him, and he does not begrudge Rowan the distance she requires.

No, it is… the castle. The lands, the people he is now responsible for, all that comes with being a noble that he never wanted and would never have asked for.

He hadn’t liked Gwaren when they first liberated it from Meghren, and he doesn’t like it any better now with the added memories of his failures. In love, in friendship, in loyalty… no, he doesn’t care for the reminders.

Even worse, though, is that Loghain has no idea where to start. Perhaps if Maric had ‘gifted’ him an already prosperous land, it could have gone on by itself while Loghain scrambled for the basics of statecraft. But Gwaren is in disrepair in more than just infrastructure and Rowan answers only so many of his letters before her unnecessary guilt chokes her.

The harbor--the life’s blood of his new lands--seems to Loghain to be far more important than anything else, so that his people have money for food and shelter, work so they do not grow bored and idle. Besides, Loghain likes living in tents far more than he likes castles, with all their chances for assassins to be hiding around corners.

This blonde harpy that the people sent to represent them--as if he is so far above them that they cannot speak to him themselves, his father is probably rolling over in whatever grave the Orlesians gave him--disagrees.

“This is a tent! The Teyrn of Gwaren cannot be living in a _tent_ and ignoring the crumbling of his homestead around him!” she yells at him, while his guards stare at her in amused horror. The tent in question--far nicer than the one he spent much of his life in, almost the same size as a decently sized house, in colors that make his eyes hurt in the morning sun--stands innocently in the middle of the courtyard.

A servant--an elven maidservant, Nemi, wife to Potter, one of his former Night Elves and oldest friend, who looks a half a second from falling off his perch in the more sturdy rafters from laughing--peeks out from the flap with arms full of laundry and squeaks when the harpy glares at her. Loghain clears his throat. “The harbor will bring needed business to Gwaren, Mistress Carpenter, and I am not uncomfortable with waiting.”

“‘Not uncomfortable’? Serah, your comfort means next to nothing to me,” she says, arms folded across her chest, her jaw stubborn. “But there won’t _be_ a Teyrnir if your freeholders do not swear themselves to you.” She raises a pale eyebrow, and Loghain notices her eyes are blue and hard. “ _You_ may not care for the appearance of things, but _they_ do.”

Loghain sighes. It all seems terribly _Orlesian_ to him, and no one had ever begrudged _Maric_ for living in a tent, but he can admit that the amount of peacetime politics he knows fills less than a thimble.

If only Maric had contented himself with another army promotion, Loghain would have been happy with that, a chance to feel useful rather than adrift with everything but an oar to guide him on the currents. “If it means that much to you, Mistress, then I put you in charge of it,” he says, ignoring the way her mouth falls open in shock, turning toward Nemi. “You should probably go tell Potter that if he can see well enough to climb my walls and fall off them laughing at his commander then he should be watching you instead,” he whispers, suppressing a smile when Nemi huffs a small laugh and disappears.

“You-you can’t just put me in charge! You impossible man! What do I know of rebuilding a castle?”

“Far more than I, Mistress Carpenter, I assure you.” A messenger lingers on the edge of the courtyard, and Loghain tries not to sigh again. It is probably too much to hope for that Rowan has managed to write with more advice, and Maric seems to think that commanding an army is the same as ruling a holding, thank the Maker that he convinced them to go through with the betrothal. Who knows what Maric might have convinced people to try without Rowan to temper him. It’s probably more bad news, with no guidance on how to fix any of it.

“Do you expect me to do it with my bare hands, then? By myself?” Her foot taps out a jaunty rhythm on the cobblestones, and Loghain tries not to let on how awkward he feels about all of this.

“Give your requests to my seneschal,” a fancy title for a man who knows only how to count coin and turn a profit, but the man has done well enough so far, as far as Loghain can tell. Something that sounds like Rowan prods at him about manners, and he doesn’t bother holding back his frown, “…Please. You’ll have whatever need, within reason. I’m sure there are men who need coin and would prefer to stay dry rather than work the harbor.”

Her foot stops, and when Loghain chances a look, there’s a strange light in her blue eyes. “Very well then, I accept,” she says, sniffing, and marches stiffly off. He blinks at her retreating back, wondering what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

* * *

The answer, it seems, is Maeve--as she insists he call her by the third time she does this, it fits her about as well as harpy does and is far less likely to get him slapped if he happens to say it out loud--accosting him with drawings and details and maps that he can make neither heads nor tails of and imperiously requiring an answer as to which is better suited to his castle.

_His_ answer never varies from, “whatever you think is best,” which never fails to make her press pink, full lips into a little white line and most of the time causes her to storm off, muttering sharp, unkind words about him.

All of his guards love her. Potter and the few remaining Night Elves who chose to follow him and try to make a home in Gwaren find much amusement in crafting more and more ridiculous tales about the two of them. Loghain tries to focus on writing letters to whoever will answer his questions, but the laughter and light after so long spent waiting for the next battle makes him smile.

There are two months of the same before Maeve flings open his tent flap carrying no papers at all. He’s hardly looked up from his current letter--Rendon Howe has been a decently reliable writer, even if some of his advice seems strange--before she says, without preamble or warning, “you require a wife--or a husband, I care not--if you will not make decisions regarding your home for yourself.”

He pictures it almost immediately: a small ceremony, Mother Ailis attending, Maric and Rowan in the crowd, happy for him finally. Slipping a gold ring--enchanted with whatever protection Wilhelm will give it, he trusts no other mage as much--onto a hand far more delicate than his own.

It’s not Rowan’s calloused and scarred from battle hand in his, and nor is it Maric’s warm and trusted hand.

Maeve’s deceptively pretty, strong hand lays in his, and Loghain realizes he hasn’t thought of Maric or Rowan in his bed for weeks.

“Whatever you think is best,” he says without meaning to, and it’s because he’s staring at Maeve in shock that he’s somehow fallen in love with her that he can see her expression slip into sadness for the briefest of moments before it firms into a stubborn resolve.

Oh Maker, their children are going to be horrible little tyrants someday.

“Yes, well, congratulations to you then,” she says, and then she storms out.

Loghain pulls out a new sheet of paper and pens a few letters once he gets over his shock.

* * *

Maric’s response to his hurried letter is to show up in Gwaren dragging Rowan along with him in person to watch the show. He scowls at the sight of royal horses and an entire company coming through his gates.

Wilhelm’s is thankfully more subdued and includes a thick gold band for his use and a delicate golden ring for Maeve’s. Loghain is not sure that he’s ever seen Wilhelm travel anywhere without his giant golem looming over everything and it rather puts a damper on any festivities.

He endures Maric’s engulfing hug for far longer than he thinks is necessary until Rowan pries Maric off only to replace him. She’s glowing and with how tightly she’s gripping him, there’s no chance of Loghain mistaking the bump of her stomach for anything else.

“I’m so happy for you,” he whispers, honestly, and the smile Rowan gives him is blinding.

“And we’re so happy for _you_ ,” Maric says, slapping him on the back.

“Is that a tent?” Rowan says. “Are you _still_ living in a tent?”

“The castle isn’t quite finished yet, although Maeve is very diligent,” Loghain says to the floor, not meeting their eyes. He’s not ashamed of it, but more and more he realizes how right Maeve was.

“But it’s going to be finished before the wedding, right?” Maric looks around as if Loghain is planning on having it right that moment.

“Without a doubt,” he replies. “I haven’t even asked her yet.”

Rowan licks her lips and frowns at Maric. “You told me that we were coming here to attend a _wedding_ , Maric, did you forget to mention that he hasn’t even asked her yet?” Her voice carries well, it always has, good for a battlefield and terrible for keeping secrets. Loghain looks around and only sees Potter and his guards concealing their laughter, a far more common sight in his life than he would have ever thought possible. And here he even rescued Potter from an Orlesian’s dungeon. Such thanks he gets.

“I thought he would have done it by now, Rowan, you know Loghain, once he comes up with a plan he doesn’t sit on it,” Maric’s panicked waving is belied by his wide smile and mischievous tone. Rowan glares at Maric suspiciously before turning her gaze to Loghain.

He shrugs, “I asked him for advice on how to ask. I don’t want to mess up.” The last bit comes out almost in a mumble, and it is only because Maric and Rowan are his closest friends that it’s audible at all. Rowan’s eyes soften.

“Of course you don’t. _Men_ ,” she says, fondly, rolling her eyes. “Well, we’ll get you sorted in no time.” She taps her finger against her lip in thought. “Perhaps we should go inquire at the inn first. Since the castle is not,” Rowan looks significantly at his tent, “habitable.”

Loghain shrugs, “if you want. I could set up more tents?” It’s not a serious question, but the quickly suppressed look of horror Rowan gives him almost breaks his straight-faced delivery and gives away the joke.

* * *

Maeve joins them for dinner at Maric’s invitation. Loghain takes one look at her lingering near the table Nemi was setting in his courtyard--tall, straight-backed, her light blonde hair almost fire red in the waning sunlight--and nearly turns right around in a demonstration of the better part of valor.

Maric, the traitor, merely laughs and pushes him ahead.

There are introductions all around, and dinner afterwards is… awkward.

It’s quiet, except for Rowan and Maric making veiled teases toward Loghain and light gossip about the various nobles of their mutual acquaintance. Loghain does not say much at all, just answering questions posed directly to him and returning a few of the more blatant hints with idle speculation of baby names, and tasting nothing but ashes of the food he mechanically eats.

Maeve, though, speaks only when spoken to, and her pretty blue eyes stay on her plate the entire time. It is such a change from her refreshing directness, her vicious tongue-lashings, that Loghain has no idea what to do. It’s like she is a different person and he does not like it.

As the dinner goes on and the silences stretch longer and longer, Rowan starts trying to communicate something to Loghain through eye gestures alone.

He was never very good at that sort of thing, so he just frowns at her.

Rowan frowns back, tapping her spoon on the table. He frowns harder and looks at Maric.

Maric shrugs, which makes Rowan snort disgustedly. “Ugh, fine,” Rowan says, making Maeve jump. Rowan gestures with her spoon as if it was her sword leapt back into her hand and she was fending some attacker off. “Maeve Carpenter, I know that you are not normally like this, and it is a disservice to pretend otherwise. We want to know you because Loghain wants to marry you, even though he is an _idiot_ who will apparently never ask you of his own free will.” Maric bursts out into boisterous laughter.

Loghain chokes. The Hero of damned River Dane and he dies choking on his stew, of course. Maric manages to pound him on the back in between his fits of laughter, which dislodges the stew to the point where Loghain _might_ survive.

When he looks up, Maeve is staring at him, mouth just slightly open, and a rosy blush staining her cheeks. “You want to marry… me?” she asks, and she sounds a bit wondering.

“Yes,” he mumbles, his throat sore. He looks away. “Whatever you think is best, though.”

“Oh my Maker,” Maric whispers to Rowan, “she has him wrapped around her little finger.”

“You’ve been saying that all this time,” Maeve says, her eyes narrowing a bit, her grip on her dinner knife changing to something more threatening, “are you actually trying to say something else?”

“No!” Loghain says immediately, except it sounds like a lie even to him.

“Yes!” Maric says at the same time, and sends Loghain his most charming smile, the one that Loghain was always both jealous of and a sucker for.

Maeve drops the knife with a clatter onto the table and lunges for Loghain. He catches her on reflex, and the way her waist fits his arm makes something in him settle. “Oh you stupid, stubborn, _idiot_ man,” she says before grabbing his face in both hands and pulling him into a searing kiss. “Yes,” she says in between kisses, “yes, I’ll marry you.”

* * *

The ceremony the next week is everything Loghain has ever thought it could be.

Mother Ailis arrives the day after that first dinner, and with her to smooth the way their dinners get more and more easy, and Loghain feels like he is floating through the Fade. It almost doesn’t feel real, having his friends by him again, having Maeve punctuate her demands with sweet kisses, having Mother Ailis pull him aside and tell him that his father would be so very happy for him.

Rowan and Maeve grow close, and Loghain hopes that there will be sometime in the future--when Gwaren can stand on its own for a time, when the repairs are done and there are no more concerns--where he can visit Rowan and Maric at court, with Maeve and Rowan doting on their hopefully many children, heads together just like now, probably plotting to take over Ferelden, and Maric and Loghain able to watch them and simply bask in the peace they all sacrificed so much for.

The Chantry in Gwaren is small, but it suits their purposes, and Maeve looks glorious in a red, silk dress that he thinks Rowan gave to her--it looks familiar, in any case--with her long, blonde hair unbound and tumbling in waves down her back, a wide smile gleaming in the torchlight.

If Mother Ailis says anything Loghain doesn’t hear her, and it takes Maeve sharply clearing her throat for him to fumble the rings out of his side pouch.

His hands feel huge and clumsy compared to hers, but he manages to slide the delicate ring onto her finger without incident, and Loghain’s hand shakes only a little when Maeve does the same for him.

And it’s done, but the only thing Loghain can do is try to memorize this moment so he can always picture it in his mind, so Maeve just smirks, shakes her head, and pulls him down into a kiss.

* * *

Much of Castle Gwaren still isn’t habitable, but there are a few rooms cleared and it’s clear that Nemi and the other servants have been busy because the room that Maeve leads him to after they bid Maric, Rowan, Mother Ailis, and the others good night--and they’re leaving for Denerim tomorrow in the morning, he plans to be there to say goodbye--is clean and furnished with sturdy wood, fine furs, and soft wools.

The bed, which takes up much of the space, is well-carved and the bedding is probably softer than anything he’s ever had the chance to sleep on. It doesn’t hold his attention, though.

Maeve’s eyes glow in the firelight, half-lidded and beautiful.

He just has to kiss her, deeply, and Loghain is sure that he will never get enough of her.

Her hand finds its way under his shirt, where she strokes the thick scar he got from a pike instead of Maric getting it instead. He runs his hands through her hair, wondering at the way it flows through his fingers, like the silk of her dress as it slides to the floor.

She shoves him back, pushes him onto the almost too soft bed, and the only reason he goes is because _she’s_ the one doing the pushing, he’s too used to being a wall around everyone else but with Maeve she knows just how to make him crumble in her wake, a storm and a fury that he could not help but get caught in.

The Maker must have sent her, Loghain must have done something _right_ to have this, amid all the creeping hollowness of the war and its aftermath.

Maeve crawls on top of him, skin glowing in the firelight, her nipples peaked and hard, he just wants to lick, to suck and she smiles. “Rowan told me something,” she says, and it brings him back to reality to hear the name of his former lover on his wife’s--his _wife_ \--lips in their marriage bed. Maeve leans closer, her breasts dragging against his chest and he doesn’t care anymore just so long as she stays with him just like this. “Do you know what she told me?” she breathes into his ear, running a soft hand down his side, lower and lower each pass over she does.

His thoughts are scattered and full of just _her_ , just his _wife_ , so it takes long moments for him to stutter out, “n-no… please, _Maeve_ , I need…”

When she laughs, it’s low and throaty and accompanied by a searing kiss that lasts forever and not long enough. Loghain’s cock is hard and he tries to move up, against her, searching for something, but she moves away, kissing along his jaw, scraping her teeth down his throat.

Her hand strokes down his hip, her nails barely grazing his skin but they feel more like fire than anything else. “She told me, my husband, that you like to be ordered. Told what to do,” Loghain shudders, a moan building in his chest, and he needs to _feel_ her. He tries to move closer, thrust up, but she puts a single hand on his chest and he has to fall as still as he can. Maeve’s smile is wicked and beautiful. “Of course, I knew that.” But then the hand that was on his hip brushes his ass, dips in and grazes his rim, and he cries and bucks up.

“ _Ah_ , Maeve, _please_.” His voice doesn’t even sound like his own.

“She gave me a wedding present, afterwards, and told me how to use it,” she says, and Loghain hears a cork pop before she sits back onto his leg and he can feel her wet heat on his thigh, Maeve rubbing herself on his leg, breathy, choked little gasps escaping before she stills and prods his other leg away, exposing himself to her and whatever she wishes to do to him.

If he’s trembling, it’s because of the thick cloud of anticipation that steals his tongue and lives in his stomach. “Yes, yes, yes,” comes from somewhere far away.

Her fingers against his rim are slick and hot, just petting until a thin finger slips in. It feels huge and dainty all at the same time, and Loghain gasps at the _presence_ of it. He’s only done this once before, a long, long time ago, and his memory of it is a haze of soapy pleasure, one of the few times they’d had where there were _rooms_ and time and things other than hurried hands, eager cocks, and wet cunts.

Maeve’s finger sets an achingly slow rhythm, coming so close to that place that makes his cock jump but never quite touching it. Loghain moans, half in frustration, half at the building, blinding pleasure.

Another finger, slick but not slick enough to stop the almost too much pressure from his rim stretching to accommodate it. Maeve rocks herself on his thigh again, in time with her probing fingers, and he grips the covers because she stopped him from touching before and he’ll do whatever she thinks is best.

A third finger slips in, and Loghain moans on it, feeling full and flushed and _wanting_ , trying to stay still and good for her but wanting nothing more than to rock down on her fingers so she’ll finally touch that place she’s been teasing.

“My husband,” Maeve says, throaty and perfect, moaning as she takes her pleasure, her due from his all too willing body, “you’ve been so good.”

Loghain gasps, fisting the covers again, so close, so _close_ , to seeing stars instead of rafters.

Then he’s suddenly empty, _achingly_ so, his rim twitching and closing around nothing at all that the stars behind his eyes back away and he gasps and whimpers. Maeve pets his stomach and lifts herself off his leg, leaving it cold and wet. His cock twitches at the visceral knowledge that _she_ wants this as much as he does, the proof of which is drying on his skin.

“You’ve been so good,” Maeve says, standing in the firelight, her hair glowing golden red and draping around her hips. “Doing whatever I tell you is best.” Leather straps frame her hips and cunt, holding a glittering, polished summer stone cock in place between her legs. His mouth goes dry with want.

“Maeve, please,” he manages, he can almost imagine how _full_ she could make him with that, and her slow smile tells him that she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

She slides her hand over it, leaving it glistening with slick, and she puts her hand between her thighs for a moment until she’s gasping and flushed.

Her hand comes away dripping and for the first time she touches his cock with it, so unexpected, her grip so wet and firm, yet so _needed_ that a bolt of fire travels up Loghain’s spine instantaneously, fogging his head with its smoke and the stars are back, closer than ever.

The hand disappears, and Loghain nearly sobs in need and relief as the stars retreat. “Please, please,” he says, wanting whatever she will give him, but needing _something_ before he goes mad.

“Don’t come, do whatever you need to, but I’m going to want that later.” He nods frantically, and the brush of her soft skin as she climbs between his legs almost makes a liar out of him, but Maeve stills and lets him catch his breath.

The first press of the cockhead against his rim is cold and it makes it even easier to do as Maeve wishes, his own cock flagging just a little.

But it slides in, and in, until he can feel it in his throat, and Maeve’s wet curls press against his balls, scratching just this side of pleasantly, the leather rim a warm contrast to the heavy stone that is so deep Loghain isn’t sure he’ll ever not be able to feel it again.

She waits, him full of her cock and gasping around it, until it’s body warm and he can’t even help trying to get it in further, little thrusts onto it that rock it gently against that place and light bursts behind his eyes everytime.

Maeve runs a hand up his side, pulls out until he is empty, whining, and clenching, and then she thrusts back in.

All of it is warm and wet and loud, the feel of her stone cock thick and unyielding in him, her delicate hands on him, telling him where to go and what to do, and Maeve gasping and grunting above him, her hair curtaining around them until the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Loghain wants to stay like this forever.

It’s an eternity in a moment before she leans up and kisses him, her blue, blue eyes wild and and hazy and her body pressed against his. He realizes, almost belatedly, that she’s unbuckled herself from her cock, even though he can still clench around it, even though it’s still hard in him.

“My love,” and oh that name thrills him, and he wants to hear it from her for the rest of their lives, “you’re so good to me,” she says, wrapping a hand around his cock, he’d kept himself hard for her, just as she wanted.

She lifts up and covers him, positioning his cock so that she can sink down on it warmer and wetter and so wondrously _welcoming_ that he wants to run his hands down her unblemished back. She ripples around him, clenching and he can’t help but do the same around _her_ cock as she rocks herself on him.

Maeve gasps around him, taking him sweeter and gentler than she’d taken him, and then she clenches down and shakes apart around him, right as she takes her cock and thrusts it into him one last time.

Even though Maeve hasn’t given him permission, he can’t help but come in her, around her, light bursting like a flame sparking into existence behind his eyes, panting her name.

Afterward, they lay pressed together in their soft bed, and she strokes his chest, he tangles his fingers in her hair.

There’ll be time tomorrow to thank Rowan before she leaves, to say goodbye to Maric for another year at the very least, but for now Loghain has Maeve and she has him so the future doesn’t look quite as lonely and overwhelming as it used to.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, David Gaider. Or, anyone at the Dragon Age production team. Please ignore the fact that this is a sex fic and please do us all the favor of giving us more Night Elves content. I need it. This fandom needs it. Thank you.
> 
> In other news, I just had Loghain sacrifice himself for my amusement for like the third time in DAI in celebration of the teaser trailer and I thought now was an appropriate time to post this.
> 
> I never thought I would ship a canon pairing, but here we are. If you'd like, come visit me on [tumblr](https://sachinighte.tumblr.com/)!


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